Dream House

by Jean Brashear

  Someone who understood love better than she ever would.

  And with these realizations, she let Micah Smith go. She would not cling or attempt to grasp more than they had shared. They would be friends, perhaps; they had experienced an intimacy that was like many of life’s most precious gifts. Not meant to be captured or replicated, forced or made to stand still. Its beauty was precisely because it was ephemeral, beyond the scope of ordinary life. Impossible to pin down or make routine.

  She would have a piece of him with her forever, and that would have to be enough. She would never forget him or this time they’d had together, but he was too extraordinary to try to contain.

  Jezebel watched him for a second longer, even though it seemed an invasion of a communion too private to view.

  Then she turned away.

  And left her illusions behind.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was finished.

  Micah stood back from the easel, within him a stillness so profound that his ears pounded with the weight of the hush.

  Emerging from a painting was always like climbing to the surface after untold hours passed deep in a cavern. In the best moments, he and his art became one, his arm an extension of his mind’s eye, tapping into a dark, shimmering lake. At those times, there was no Micah Smith, no world beyond the vision that gripped him.

  Sometimes the experience was misery; at its best, it was salvation.

  Still inside the rim of his cave, Micah hovered between earth and beyond, seized by a bittersweet understanding. He wanted to move on with his life, yes. Needed to. But when he fully emerged, Charlotte would truly be his past.

  I’m sorry. I forgive you. I wish you could forgive me.

  I loved you. The boy inside me always will.

  I’ll never forget you.

  His throat thickened. For an instant, he was tempted to go back. To retreat into the safe arms of his grief.

  She needs you now.

  Charlotte’s voice. He’d nearly forgotten the sound of it.

  He focused on the painting. Looked into the eyes he’d loved for so much of his life.

  There was nothing to forgive, Micah. You only sought to protect me.

  Suddenly, the hazel eyes glowed the way they had so often, and he was reminded that Charlotte had always understood him, often better than he himself did.

  He shifted his gaze to the depiction of the baby they’d lost. Ours would have been a beautiful child, sweetheart. Then back at her. And you would have been an amazing mother.

  Inside Micah, something eased as he, at last, talked to the woman he’d cared for since he was ten years old. He’d lost that in his mourning, the simple pleasure of conversing with her. Cut himself off from that most necessary communion.

  I’ll always be here to listen.

  He smiled.

  But you have someone else now. You’re going to be just fine, Micah.

  He bowed his head as tears stung his eyes. Her voice seemed so real.

  Be well, my love.

  He looked up. You, too. He found a grin. I hope you’re running footraces up there. Dancing and leaping and…whole. Strong as you never got to be down here.

  “Micah?”

  He jolted. Lily stood at the door, worry creasing her face. Behind her was Cal, holding her hand.

  Micah blinked. “What’s wrong?”

  “You tell me. You’ve been gone since—” In the midst of crossing to him, she halted. Put her fingers over her mouth. “Oh, Micah. You did it.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “It’s as if she could walk right out of that painting.” Tears spilled over her lashes. She approached the easel, her hand out. Brushed the air over the infant’s face. “Hi, baby,” she murmured.

  “It’s absolutely stunning. Charlotte would be so proud.”

  He smiled. “Yeah. I think she would.” And the knowledge swept through him like a cooling wind.

  Lily stared. “You’re all right, aren’t you?”

  He regarded her with surprise. “Actually, I am.” His head was light and his stomach growling. He was torn between sleeping for a week and running cross-country.

  But what he wanted most was to see Jezebel.

  At the thought, urgency clutched him. He’d made a hash of things. He had to get to her. Tell her that he was finally free.

  That she was the reason.

  And he was happy about the baby.

  “Lil, I have to go.” He only did a cursory cleaning of his hands. All at once, nothing in the world mattered but reaching Jezebel.

  “Where’s the fire?”

  “I have someone to find. Listen, can you run the nursery without me for a little while?”

  “You mean like we already did today?”

  “Huh?” He peered outside. Darkness was falling. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly seven. You’ve been missing since last night. Cal drove by this morning, saw your truck and heard the music, so he didn’t bother you, but I got worried when another night began.” She took one glance back at Cal.

  Cal grinned at her, and Lily blushed furiously enough to draw even Micah’s distracted notice.

  “What’s going on with you two?”

  “Lily Belle here broke down, at long last. and went out with me last night,” Cal explained. “And fell for my fatal charm.”

  His words were brash, but naked tenderness was on Cal’s face. And the usual tension was missing in Lily.

  “You okay, Lil?”

  “Yeah. And Calvin is, as ever, full of hot air.” But she colored again, watching him.

  Then, with obvious effort, Lily drew her attention back to her brother. “Mom will be so thrilled. That’s where you’re going, right?”

  Micah’s mind raced ahead, wondering what Jezebel was feeling after he’d abandoned her with a test kit in her hand.

  “Earth to Micah.”

  He tore himself from his musing. “What? Listen, Lil, tell Mom I’ll be by later. I’ve got to talk to someone else first.”

  He covered the painting to protect it, then charged out the door, leaving his sister and the man who, it seemed, had captured her at last, gaping after him.

  In the end, though, Micah made a hasty detour to his mother’s house, showered, shaved and dressed. He spent too much time in the greenhouse, debating over what flowers to bring to Jezebel to begin his apology for the way he’d left her. Dread skated down his spine as he contemplated, then discarded, word after word. Argument after argument.

  Her face rose in his mind, lit by purpose, alive with optimism that appeared to override his complete lack of welcome for her news. It’s not your burden. I’m fine on my own.

  He didn’t doubt that.

  But he needed her. Freed from the weight of his guilt, from the constant crowding of sorrow that had filled every inch inside him, he felt both years younger and light of heart in a manner he had never before experienced. The world seemed full of possibilities.

  The one he wanted most was Jezebel.

  And the child she carried inside her. His child.

  For a small, still moment, he murmured to the one he had lost. I’m sorry. It was never you. My fear ruled me. I couldn’t see past it, couldn’t breathe for the thought of losing Charlotte.

  But Charlotte, he saw now, had only been on loan to him, too frail to survive a lifetime together. He would have to live with his regret for squandering their last months.

  Too rushed to make a decision, he grabbed a rosebush, some daylilies and an azalea, all peace offerings he would plant at Jezebel’s new cottage.

  Their cottage, if he had anything to say about it.

  And charged into the night to find her.

  She was gone. Vanished. Darrell knew something, Micah suspected. He was not, however, planning to share it.

  “You just get on back to New York City. I can’t say exactly what you did to her, but I recognize a broken heart when I see one. That woman is too fine for the likes of you. Don’t care how many write-ups you get. They can
call you genius in every paper on earth. It don’t change what you done to that girl.”

  Micah had no defense to offer. Apparently, Jezebel hadn’t revealed her pregnancy yet, but this was not the audience to appreciate what a shock the news had been for him, how it had thrown him. Persona non grata, he was. Even Chappy wouldn’t meet his eye.

  He couldn’t blame them. He left the bar, its abrupt silence brimming with hostility. He walked around behind the building. Scanned the surroundings, every inch of them painted with memories. Jezebel laughing, tickling. Moaning, sighing.

  Crying.

  Then, from inside, he heard Rufus’s whimper.

  Rufus. He brightened. She wouldn’t leave the dog for good.

  He placed one hand on the knob, tempted to go inside if it was unlocked and seek comfort in her belongings.

  Except a sudden vision of her face intervened, tight with strain as he demanded that she forgo her privacy and—

  Get it over with.

  What a bastard he was. Too caught up in his own pain to notice hers. To recognize how violated she must have felt.

  He withdrew his hand, dropped his forehead to the wall. He would violate her no more.

  At least she was coming back.

  Then stark fear seized him. Why had she left? To get rid of the child he was so clearly unready to accept?

  Do you want me to?

  No. Oh, Jezebel, no. Please.

  It’s not your business what I do.

  But it is. You can’t—

  I always swore that one day I’d have a real house with a white picket fence and babies and puppies and kittens.

  Some of his tension eased. This was Jezebel, after all. Saint of strays. Defender of the weak.

  Maker of families, however unconventional.

  Still, he would not draw a deep breath until he could speak to her, make her see that he—

  His eyes popped wide.

  Loved her.

  He paused, tried the idea on for size. Found in it a rightness that resonated clear to his bones. Micah Smith loved Jezebel Hart, all of her, not just her stunning body but her sweetness, her bounteous heart. Her spunk in standing up to a world that had knocked her down again and again.

  Her stubborn insistence on believing the best in people when so many of them—himself foremost—showed her so much less.

  Sweet mercy, that was Jezebel’s appearance in his life. A mercy he hadn’t earned, but granted to him nonetheless, despite all his mistakes.

  He’d been itching to leave since the moment he’d landed in town, but now he realized he wasn’t going anywhere. Not until he and she could talk this out.

  Still unsettled by the requirement to take it on faith that he would get another chance with her, Micah departed, in search of the wisest person he knew, hoping she could help him stack the deck.

  After talking to his mother, he painted the rest of the night, using acrylics so they’d dry faster, but promising himself to render this image in oils with his very next effort. Oils were the only way to do her vivacity true justice.

  He’d asked his mother to keep their talk in confidence, not ready yet to share with his siblings the mess he’d made, not until he had a chance to work things out with Jezebel.

  Once more, his stomach jittered. He had a fleeting thought that he should call Erica, so that she could enjoy him getting his just desserts.

  But he would prevail in the end, he resolved. Jezebel had every right to be furious with him; she could ignore him or rain down curses on his head. She was entitled to make him suffer.

  But he had the ace in the hole: the cottage. And he would win.

  He secured Lily’s indulgence to manage the morning without him only by promising that she would be the first to hear why. He left her and Cal grinning at each other like a couple of kids. At some point, he’d be asking hard questions, but for now, all he could think about was Jezebel. Somehow, he’d passed beyond the need for sleep and food, fired by an energy unlike any he’d felt before.

  Hours later, the stage was set.

  And now he had to wait. But if she didn’t return soon, he would haunt Darrell and Skeeter until they caved.

  Jezebel’s feet were dragging as she emerged from her car. Two days spent waiting for nothing; she had not been required to testify, but Russ Bollinger had still been convicted. She couldn’t help being relieved that he wouldn’t be able to blame his conviction on her, and she could put that chapter behind her.

  Home free, at last.

  She stopped dead before her doorway.

  But…where was home for her now?

  Every hour away from Three Pines, she’d alternated between resolve and despair. She didn’t have to leave Three Pines; Micah surely would be gone the instant his mother’s situation cleared.

  But soon, her secret would be out, and too many people had seen them together. She’d made her peace with the knowledge that she and Micah had no future. What worried her most was having her child suffer the consequences of having no father, if he didn’t want to be involved even to the degree of claiming his child. She was familiar with being a misfit, and she would do everything in her power to save her child from the misery of it.

  If she went somewhere else, she could call herself a widow and her baby would never have to know, until the time was right, that its father had made a choice. But she kept returning to the fact that if she left Three Pines, the fate she feared most for her child could materialize. The child would be defenseless, as Jezebel had once been, should something happen to her.

  She’d had very little sleep since she had walked away from Micah’s studio like a zombie. When she tried, the portrait of Charlotte haunted her…mocked her, with its reminder of a love Jezebel could never have. Tired to the bone, she unlocked the door to her makeshift quarters—

  And was swallowed up in the abundant affection of one sloppy dog and the irritation of a too-long-ignored cat.

  “Oh, Rufus…” For the first time since her hopes had shattered forever, Jezebel allowed herself to weep. She buried her face in his fur and clung as sobs refused to be stemmed.

  She slipped from kneeling to sitting and cried out her misery, all the lost illusions, every last unattainable dream. Oscar prowled and rubbed as if to comfort her, and Rufus snuffled at her hair.

  Finally, the storm abated. Drained by the force of it, she sat on the floor, hunched over, stroking her two best friends, and reminded herself of all she had to be grateful for. Eyes closed, she leaned her head against the door and focused on gathering herself to face a life that had, only a matter of days ago, seemed pretty wonderful.

  She pulled Rufus close with one arm and placed the other hand on her belly. “We’ll be all right, baby. I promise.” She regarded her faithful friend. “Rufus, I’m going to need your help.”

  Then she smiled ruefully. Look at you, asking help from a dog. You are a head case, Jezebel.

  “Okay,” she said. “Pity party over. Time to make plans.” She got to her knees, then rose to her feet, kicked off her shoes and padded to the kitchen table to check her mail.

  And froze.

  Flowers, scattered in pots all across her kitchen counters. Roses, gardenias. Honeysuckle and azaleas.

  And square in the center of the table, a note.

  Jezebel, the envelope said, in bold letters.

  With a tiny sketch of the cottage beside her name. One created by no other hand than Micah Smith’s.

  In trembling fingers, she lifted the envelope and turned it over.

  Then paused.

  What could be inside it? She was terrified and thrilled, eager and reluctant.

  But curiosity won. She opened the flap.

  You have no reason to forgive me, he wrote. I never meant to hurt you, but I realize I did. We have a lot to talk about. Please come to the cottage. I’ll wait for you, however long it takes.

  And signed it only G.

  She stood there with it in her hand for a very long time, afraid to hope but
desperately wishing she dared.

  She thought about all she’d surmounted in her life, reminded herself that taking a simple drive to a cottage would be considered by most people to be a piece of cake, compared with stripping off your clothes for strangers or sleeping in bus stations or living alone on the streets at thirteen.

  But if she’d ever been more scared, she couldn’t recall it.

  Because this…could be everything. Her dreams, her fantasies, a child’s yearning, a woman’s deepest longings.

  Or it could be only a decent man trying to find a way to square accounts—

  Before walking out of her life.

  She squeezed the envelope—

  And felt something else inside.

  When she turned the envelope on its side, a key fell out. She’d seen it before, marked with a blue dot, the day Micah unlocked the door and let her enter the house he had built with so much love.

  She clutched it to her breast.

  But her heart filled with sorrow. Micah was going to leave, but conscience was making him grant her the cottage he knew she wanted so badly.

  She managed a small smile. Not that long ago, she would have been the happiest woman in the world to have the cottage for what it would mean to Skeeter and to herself. She just hadn’t understood then that the man who owned it would mean so much more.

  Jezebel squared her shoulders. “Okay. All right.” Time to count blessings, not to mourn what she couldn’t have. She glanced at the flowers, inhaled their perfume. Peered down at Rufus. “Want to come with me, fella?” She could use the reinforcements.

  In the end, though, she decided she had to face Micah alone. She petted Rufus and Oscar, grabbed her purse—

  And left to get this—whatever it was—over with.

  Each revolution of her tires brought a memory, and Jezebel stopped fighting them. Someday, she would share them—the G-rated ones, anyway—with his child.

  At last, the cottage emerged into view, and she fell still before the onslaught of emotions rolling over her.